


Four Parties Gob Went To, And One He Skipped

by annaloverofarendale



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Gob Bluth, M/M, drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3623550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annaloverofarendale/pseuds/annaloverofarendale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Oscar Bluth is the life of the party. It's not a night until he's shown up, and it's not over until he's broken, one way or another. Four times Gob partied too hard, and one time he didn't go at all. (Or, angst, angst, angst, angst, fluff)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cage of Death

Gob Bluth is fearless. Hushed whispers peter out when he walks through the halls of his high school. They have a saying in his senior class, that the rumor about Gob is the toned down version of the truth. You need to add to it to get the full story. Gob loves it. It’s the one thing he’s better at than Michael. Michael can’t jump, can’t fly, Michael has to sit quietly and plan out his days, the days Gob thinks he’s wasting because “schoolwork, Michael? On a Saturday?” is a question he’s stopped bothering with. 

Lindsay comes in a close second though, all the boys want to sleep with her and all the girls want to be her. She’s just a freshman though, and he knows she still sleeps with that stuffed bear, the one Mother told her to throw out. And Father will actually kill Gob if he gets his little Lindsay too tied up in anything big, so he has to hide some of his parties and wilder adventures from her. He figures it’s too late to be a bad influence, or a good influence, but maybe he can at least try a little to be a halfway decent brother sometimes. As long as no one knows. 

Buster is just ten, he doesn’t really matter, he can maybe distract Mother sometimes and let Gob climb out his window, but that’s about it.

But this time, Mother and Father are going out of town. There’s a resort and a deal and if anyone from any law enforcement agency knocks on the door, they are supposed to say Lucille 2 is their mother. Lucille 2 has not been informed of this, but they’re sure she won’t mind. 

Gob briefly wonders what it says about the Bluths that George Sr. and Lucille don’t bother telling him not to throw a party, leaving that policing to fall on Michael. He gives up halfway through, the Bluths are simply not a family meant to be analyzed. He pats the thankfully still shorter Michael on the head, even though his mouth is still moving. Michael keeps talking as Gob calls ten, twenty people, promising them the greatest night ever. 

After all, tonight will be his biggest public performance to date. The Cage of Death trick is ready to go, and this is the perfect opportunity to unveil it. Gob needs the biggest audience he can get. Which reminds him-

“LINDSAY!” 

She pokes her head out her door. “Yes, Gob?”

“PARTY TONIGHT, INVITE YOUR SUITORS!” 

Michael tries to shout over Gob, to tell Lindsay that there is no party, but no one can out shout Gob, that’s another thing he beats Michael in. Ha. Take that Michael. Gob finally turns to face his little brother, Michael is almost pink now from the effort of trying to stop the force of nature that is Gob. 

“Hey Mikey, can you run down to the fabric store and get twenty, no thirty, yards of black satin stuff like now?” 

Michael just blinks. “I can’t drive, Gob.”

“What? Why can’t you drive yet? God Michael, you are such a child.” Typical Michael. He can’t do anything actually useful. How is Gob supposed to do the Cage of Death illusion without a curtain?

“That is exactly the reason why I can’t drive, why can’t you just go?” Michael is at least regaining his normal color and remembering to breathe, that’s good.

Gob sighs, exasperated. “Because, Michael, I need to get alcohol and weed and girls for the party, and you’re just a kid, you can’t do that.”

“Legally and morally, neither should you-”

Lindsay snorts. “Oh my god, Michael, you are not a lawyer!”

“Yes but this is common sense, all of that is-”

Gob throws an arm around Lindsay, at least she’s cool. “Yeah, Michael, you don’t know laws.”

“Yes, I do.”  
Gob shouts over the twins, good god they can bicker. “Children! I will, as always, take care of fucking everything-”

“Fucking everything?” Michael at least isn’t such a wuss he can’t swear. 

“Take care of every fucking thing, is that better? Don’t interrupt. Lindsay, you’re on getting the hot girls here. No butter faces, no fatties, no gross ones, okay? Michael, try not to lame up the party before everyone gets here. Buster? Buster?”

The three look around the apartment. 

“Keep doing what you’re doing. You can always not spot a Milton Man.”

~~

The red corvette technically wasn’t Gob’s, but his father kept the keys in a drawer that was easy enough to pick the lock on, so Gob considered it fair game. He loves driving it, feeling the pump of the engine on the 101, the power to speed away from the Bluth home at any moment by his fingertips. He rides with the top down, the messy hair look is in now anyway. A bit of haze is shimmering in the air over the city, but Gob’s never been far enough away from big cities to notice. His parents are always going on vacation, but in the Bluth family, it’s an actual saying that “children wreck vaginas, houses, and trips”. 

He almost misses his exit, pulling his thoughts together just in time to make the turn. Sure, he cuts off a family in a minivan, but a mini van? Come on. 

Gob finds a thrift shop far enough away from everyone he knows. He secretly loves the second hand stores, the chaos and the potential. Of course, Lucille would throw a fit, which adds to the charm. But he doesn’t want her to use his love of thrift stores as an excuse to further cut his allowance or his inheritance, and so he always drives a town or two away from home. 

The concept of home is bullshit anyway. Gob slams the door on the drivers side shut a little harder than he should. Gob’s ‘home’ is just a penthouse he grew up in, with a bunch of strangers who don’t know him but act like they do. They act like they care, but they don’t care enough to be convincing, and that’s what hurts most. 

Gob is hungry. Next to the thrift shop there’s a taco place, he buys three and tells them to keep the change when the teenaged cashier, who actually looks older than him, calls him sir and says they can’t break a hundred. 

He’s not oblivious, he knows that his family has more money than most people. He just doesn’t care that often. It’s not like he chose to be a Bluth. Given the option to be somewhere else, to be someone else, he’s not sure he could guarantee that he would choose to be George Oscar Bluth.

What is he saying, being Gob is the best.

It has to be, right?

Gob shakes off the stray thoughts. There’s an old magicians hat in the store, dusty and a little beat up. Normally he’d insist on something fancier looking, but when it comes to magic hats, the older the better. There’s more residual magic in the old ones, they’re good luck. Just to be safe though, he gets the industrial sized tube of glitter. And ten bottles of tequila. And when he finds an actual drug dealer (the first four he tried were just homeless) he buys all the pot he has on him. This time he drives away at the speed limit, or at least not too far above it. Cops get mean when you have too much weed in your glove compartment. Gob frowns. Although the Bluth name tends to clear that up anyway. 

He somehow gets distracted, he always does, and doesn’t get back to the penthouse until it’s already getting dark. He ignored Michael’s whining about “reliability”, nods to the gaggle of Lindsay’s freshman friends getting ready in her room, skirts too short and makeup too heavy, and starts blasting music with the living room speakers as he sets up for his illusion. 

For any proper illusion, the key is misdirection. You set up smoke and mirrors and glitter bombs so that people don’t see the sweat and labor that goes into the magic. Having a trapdoor would be ideal, but Mother didn’t let him cut one out of the floor, so he has to set up a stage first. There needs to be just enough crawl space for him to, well, crawl away. It’s less dignified than he would like, but hey, no one said magic was for pussies. 

Once the stage is set, Gob flits about, straightening things and tipping things over and dimming the lights. 

As the penthouse grows more and more crowded, the music gets louder. Gob’s heart is rabbit fast now. He can pulse along with the music and he sighs, relief pooling in his limbs. The lights are flashing and it’s mainly dark, he doesn’t need to keep track of where his body ends and the next person begins as he dances in what is usually the living room. 

The person he’s dancing on is clearly so into it, he can almost hear their breathing hitch. What the hell- what the hell- what the hell. It’s his house and his party and he can start his magic show as late as he wants. He grabs his dancing partner by the wrist and pushes them against a wall. 

Which is when he actually looks for the first time and sees short floppy brown hair and green eyes and freckles and an adam’s apple, and how he missed the bulge in their pants he isn’t sure. But it’s not a stranger per say. It’s Chris, from Chem, and he looks mildly startled but less surprised when he looks into Gob Bluth’s eyes. 

What the hell-.

Gob keeps pushing, reaching with his other hand for the doorknob he knows has to be there. The wall (no, door) suddenly gives and Gob and Chris tumble into Gob’s bedroom. They stare quietly at each other for a minute. A cough echoes in the room, and the two jump apart suddenly, guilty.

Michael is sitting crosslegged on the bed, Michael is standing up, Michael is closing his book, Michael is running out, leaving without making eye contact. Michael closes the door.

Gob thinks about running after him, to justify, but now Chris’s hands are moving much more greedily and what the hell- what- what the hell. Why not?

There’s too much fire in Gob’s system to care about implications, because right now there’s a warm body and the promise of physical contact, someone touching him and he needs that, needs it now.

He fumbles with the zipper on Chris’s jeans and maybe he pauses a little then, but Gob wants this, needs this, and his heartbeat is mixing with the baseline of the party. Gob’s life is a party, an endless stream of pumping and adrenaline. The dance partners come and cum and go, and Gob is used to the turn over, he expects it, it’s ironically enough the biggest consistency in his life.

And hearing his name escape Chris’s mouth in a groan is good and fine and maybe better than good and fine, but Gob can hear the party slowing down and that can’t happen, so he sits up and wipes his lips and pulls on his pants, and Chris follows suit, which is lucky, that’s good, he doesn’t want to talk about it and he can tell Chris doesn’t either and that’s good, that’s perfect. They didn’t talk at all. 

The party goers start clapping when they see Gob, and yes, thank god, this is what he lives for. He kills the speaker and struts onto the makeshift stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

His friends, no, his admirers roar with approval. Some have a mean glint in their eye, they’re hoping for a flop, but Gob won’t give them the satisfaction, not tonight. He throws glitter in the air, timing it so that the light bounces off the particles and there’s a storm in the air, coating everything in suspense. 

“Tonight, I will perform my greatest illusion yet! Behold-” Gob tosses aside the black covering, revealing the cage with spikes at the bottom. It’s only a little smaller than he is, he has to crouch inside but he’s used to that, the standard magic cage only comes in the six foot size and he’s six foot two, at any rate, there isn’t any room to maneuver, to hide. 

Or so they think. 

The audience is looking inquisitively at the cage. They always want to know how the trick works, but a magician never tells. Gob bows to the crowd. 

“The Cage of Death!”

A few good humored crowd members gasp. Gob smiles. 

“I will be handcuffed, constrained, tied up-” Buster hurries forward, seemingly out of nowhere, with the ropes and straightjacket. “And my cage will be suspended from the balcony!”

Real gasps ripple through the crowd. Buster puts a hand up to his mouth, his lower lips starting to wobble. Gob gestures for Buster to keep tying him.

“Yes, I will be suspended, dangling over the perilous ledge! After half an hour, my loyal assistant, Buster, will bring the Cage of Death back to the party, whereupon you all shall be amazed!” Gob subtly kicks the fog machine, turning it on with a sputter. The room grows misty. 

Buster nervously leads Gob into the cage. The audience doesn’t notice through the haze that his shoes protect him from the spikes, he just can’t sit down and they look dramatic. 

“Farewell, friends! When the half hour is up, I shall reappear!” Gob is flying, which is funny, because he’s in a cage, but he’s soaring off of the energy the crowd gives him, every yell and every cheer and every pair of clapping hands. Buster tries to move the cage, but of course he can’t, he’s too little. Gob waves a hand, trying to find Michael in the crowd, but instead of his brother a third of the football team comes on stage. They jostle the cage, but it’s all in fun, of course- of course? Of course. He tries to shout over their laughter that they need to make sure the rope is double knotted, but they’ve got it, of course? Of course, of course, right, they’re his friends? His friends. 

The cage lurches and they are suddenly out on the balcony, and the night air cuts more harshly than Gob thought it would. He feels exposed. The jocks finally finally slow down, and ask Gob where he wants them to put the cage, how to do it. Gob takes a deep breath, praying that the words come out bold and loud and right. 

“R-right. Well, uh, you can, um, you can- see that rail?” Someone nods, someone else snickers. 

“You can just- just tie me there, then lower me over-over the side.” Gob winces. He knows he can do better, he just needs, just needs, to catch his breath. The trick isn’t supposed to go like this, but you can’t- you can’t reveal the secret. 

The one who nodded leans in and tries to make eye contact with Gob, but Gob doesn’t look him in the eye.

The other players don’t hesitate, they’re laughing and smiling and eager, and Gob can’t disappoint them, he just can’t. He’s Gob Bluth, he’s in charge, he’s confident, he’s a magician. He’s wealthy, powerful, amazing, Gob Bluth.

Gob Bluth who is now in a cage hanging off his balcony when he should be in the crawl space under the stage.

His buzz from before, from the party, from the two shots of tequila, from the orgasms, is dying down. And the wind is picking up.

Gob sighs and takes stock of the situation. His wrists are tied with rope, they’re getting scratched and raw already. His arms are pinned to his sides. The floor has fucking spikes. He’s about 500 feet from the ground. And all of his tools are in the crawl space under the stage.

He suddenly wants to cry, to scream, to slide to the floor. But the floor still has fucking spikes, and why did he think he needed that? Why does he make things harder for himself, why does he need any of this? Well, he knows the answer, and it’s just as hollow as his questions, which makes it worse. He needs the magic because magic is all he has. 

Gob blinks, hard. He tries to look around, to figure out something, somehow. He has to. But he can’t think, because his heart is stopping, he’s freezing, his rabbit fast heart is broken because he hears a crack, and the cage is twisting and suddenly there’s a drop-

And Gob is too startled to scream.

~~

Gob wakes up in a hospital bed a week later with a concussion, two broken ribs, and the news that no one found him until the party wound down, an hour and a half later than when they were supposed to pull up his cage.

When he finally gets back to school, classmates whoop and high five him and ask about the next party. A boy with familiar brown hair and green eyes passes him a note in chem that Gob immediately throws in the trash. 

He’s Gob Bluth. And he’s scared shitless.


	2. A Wedding In Vegas

It’s 4 PM, and Gob Bluth hasn’t slept, hasn’t needed to sleep, hasn’t been able to sleep, for three days now. He knows, somewhere yet untouched by drugs and alcohol, that this should worry him. He’s human, probably, and humans need sleep. It’s like, a thing.

But when he tried, and he did try, maybe twelve hours ago or maybe thirty hours ago, he put his head on a pillow and tried to close his eyes, but he couldn’t do it. There was too much to see and too much to do, and he wasn’t tired anyway. His legs feel like they are in molasses now, sure, but his head is so clear and light it’s at risk for flying away.

Or maybe it’s all of Gob that’s at risk for flying away, and is that such a bad thing? Flying is freedom. Gob is 26 and has all the fucking freedom he could want, but he still feels trapped. Or does he? It’s hard to tell sometimes, between what his head says and what his mind says and he’s never been that good at listening anyway. There was always someone there, feeding him the answer, whether it was on a Spanish test or to an officer at the police station or to the reporters who love to run stories on just why it is that George Sr. has given up on his namesake first born. 

Gob wonders whether he was born like this or made. Maybe one of Michael’s punches from Boyfights knocked the sense out of him, an expression made true. 

At any rate, he’s at the wheel of an electric blue Ferrari about to race across the desert, and if he can drive fast enough, maybe he can leave the memories behind. Already he’s forgetting the details, some show of his turned riot, some girl he tried to impress who laughed in his face. The desert will smooth out the remainders, or maybe the speed will do it. 

He tosses the beer bottle out the window and it shatters on a rock. The road is hard, caked with dust and filled with cracks. Perfect. 

The Final Countdown plays, and Gob is certain that it’s just in his head when he remembers the cell phone in his hand. He flips it open, he doesn’t recognize the number but who cares?

Who cares.

“Gob? Gob, is that you? Do I have the right number? It’s me, Michael.”

For an awful moment, the name doesn’t ring any bells. Then Gob remembers skinned knees and Boyfights and- 

“MICHAEL! Hey, hello, yes, this is Gob.”

A sigh comes out the other end. “Oh good, I finally got you. You really should tell someone in the family when you get a new phone. I have some good news, buddy.”

Gob scoffs. “You finally got laid?”

“Better. I’m engaged.”

It takes a while for the words to sink in. “You know, if you get a girl pregnant you don’t have to marry her.”

Michael sighs again, he’s constantly sighing, why is Michael always sounding so disappointed in Gob when he’s the one who’s getting married at 22? “Tracie isn’t pregnant, Gob, we just love each other.”

“Don’t tell me you believe in that fairy tale bullshit-”

“You don’t?”

Gob’s throat closes in and he can’t quite speak. Stupid, naive Michael. He understands the temptation to buy into love. It’s like the Easter Bunny. The movies and songs talk about love constantly. Somewhere out there, there’s the mythical one. Someone that makes you calm and happy and right. Someone who accepts you. 

They forget to say what it means when that person is nowhere in sight. 

Either there is no such thing as love, or Gob is just unlovable. The one person born without anyone who gives a shit. 

It has to be love that’s fake. None of Gob’s friends believe in love. They cheat on their girlfriends and wives and when one girl leaves and another one comes in, nothing changes. Sure, sometimes some sap will throw away his life for a girl, because he thinks it’s love, and that’s the danger, that’s the lie, that’s the bullshit, and then that’s a fate worse than death. Love is bullshit, it’s made up by Hallmark and diamond companies and all it does is change people. 

If love was real, it would let you stay who you are. 

And that’s how Gob knows for sure that there’s no such thing as love. Because everyone wants to change him, and no one’s ever loved him, and no one ever will.

The phone in his hand is still making noise, noise that sounds vaguely like Gob’s name. He ignores it, choosing instead to rev the engine on the car. Strung out doe eyes meet his in the mirror. 

“We gonna go now?” The whore giggles, too wasted to care where they’re heading. 

Gob hangs up the phone. 

“Yeah. We’re going to drive as far away from Orange County as we can, whats-your-name. How do you feel about Vegas?”

“City of Love?” 

“What? No, City of Magic!” Gob tries to release a dove, but it’s been dead for a while now.

The hooker shrugs. “Fine by me. I still charge by the hour, you know.”

“Yeah yeah.”

~~

When Gob arrives in Las Vegas, it’s two days later, and he still hasn’t slept more than two hours at a time. He even took what was probably a sleeping pill, but it didn’t work on him. Whats-her-face asked to be dropped off in Reno, in exchange for a discount, and Gob didn’t need her to come with him anyway. 

The lights of Vegas feel perfect to Gob. They match his insides, they can keep up with his energy. He walks on the sidewalk and feels in sync with the crowds, the drunk and drugged and delirious party goers, just like him. On a whim, everything for him is on a whim, he goes into a seedy rented business space, the makeshift sign says “Strippers United”. When they ask him what agency he works for, he says he doesn’t know yet, do they have any recommendations? They make him take off his shirt, but he’s always ready to do that, the ridiculously toned representative seems impressed by his tear away buttons, a magician always has to be ready, you know. Only now, with the ink still drying on a letter of recommendation for some group called Hot Cops, he’s officially a magician/stripper. Gob thinks about photocopying the forms, and mailing them to his parents. Their reactions could be epic. Or they might not care, or say that they already thought he had sunk that low. It’s not worth the effort.

He finds the Hot Cops and gets his new uniform, meets his new coworkers. There’s Johnny, chiseled jawline, about an 8, Gob would say. Mickey, freakishly symmetrical face, a 7. Eric, tanned and lean, another 8. George and James and Henry and Martin and a flow of attractive faces and bodies and names that Gob won’t be able to remember. The Hot Cops typically work solo though, the group just provides safety and constant work. As a bit of hazing, good natured hazing, look how quickly we’re all friends now hazing, Gob is given the big job of the night. 

Gob finds the hotel with only a little trouble, is it room 312 or room 213? He’s not sure, but he’ll start with 312 and hope that it’s not old ladies, that’d be gross. He starts the music, tosses on some extra glitter, and bangs on the door, loud, confident, fearless.

“Open up, it’s the police!”

Someone opens the door, smiling but a little confused. There’s clearly a party going on, all dudes, maybe ten or so of them in this hotel suite in downtown Las Vegas. There are some wine coolers, some soft music, pretty lame if you ask Gob, but hey, a gig is a gig and you never know how freaky the quiet ones can be-

“GOB?”

And what does it say about his life that Gob’s first instinct is to say, or try to say “You’re mistaken”. He owes too much money to too many people and has done too many things he’d rather forget. It comes out slurred though, Gob’s speed has run out and now he’s fucked.

The room starts to darken a bit around the edges, his head is still too fucking light for this body, his legs have weights attached to them or something, he can’t remember what he was here to do, maybe an escape act because of the weights, but he doesn’t know, he can’t think straight, hah, that’s always been a part of the problem, but his field of vision is narrowing and the last thing he sees is his brother, three years older than the last time they were in the same place, running towards him with a look of concern on his stupid face. 

~~

He wakes up more quickly this time, the rest of the party is still there, they just moved him onto the couch. Michael looks conflicted, per usual.

“Gob? Are you okay? I didn’t know you were coming to my bachelor party, I thought the line was dropped?”

Gob groans. Oh yeah. Michael’s getting married. Time to lie his ass off. “Of course, as if the best man-” someone in the room coughs “-wouldn’t show up to the bachelor party, pssshhh. Come on.”  
Gob tries to stand, but his muscles have finally rebelled. “Oh, COME ON.” But the fight is out of him now. Michael looks angry.

“Look, Gob, we’re going to need to call an ambulance, I don’t know what you’re on-”

“Mikey, I’m not-”

“GOB. Please.” 

It takes a while, but after some back and forth while the partygoers shuffle awkwardly in the background, Michael agrees that he’ll just drive Gob back to his motel. Michael apologizes to his friends. Gob pretends to not notice the knowing glances they send his way, the pity in their eyes. To them, Gob is the fucked up brother, the fallen one, strung out and high. To Michael, Gob is a burden, an obligation. 

Gob’s not quite sure what he thinks of himself.

But he feels overwhelmed with the urge to try and show them, to show Michael’s friends, that he’s not just what they see, he’s a magician. He stands, masking the labor it takes with a grin that is a bit too wide to be comforting. 

“Gentlemen-”

Michael gently bangs his head against the wall. 

“Gentlemen- you are about to be amazed. Behold!” Gob flicks his wrist, and for once, for once, a perfect fireball hangs in the air. Elation threatens to spill out, he got it right, he got it right, and-

And now the bedspread is on fire. 

“Fuck.” Michael remains fairly unfazed as he runs to the fire extinguisher. His friends are panicking, but then again, they weren’t raised in the Bluth household. 

~~

Gob and Michael are silent as Michael steers his Toyota, of course it’s a Toyota, back to Gob’s motel. 

They sit in the parking lot, still quiet. The silence is stretching, it feels too thin to Gob. It feels like every sweater tag he’s ripped off tracking him down and suffocating him. Gob wants to speak, wants to explain, but he’s too afraid to try. He could stress stutter, or the words could come out clean and Michael could still not get it. 

Michael ends up speaking first, he always does.

“Gob. I’m not going to ask about the drugs, about how you ended up in Las Vegas when I didn’t tell you where the wedding was, or even about why you appear to be employed as a stripper. I’m certainly not going to ask why, I’ve stopped questioning your motives years ago. All that I ask is that you take this wedding invitation, and agree to show up. Wear whatever you want. Just show up, be clean, and don’t ruin things. Don’t insult Tracie. Okay? I’m just trying to start a new life. Nod if you understand me.”

Gob nods once, sharp. 

“Good.”

~~

Gob shows up late and hungover to the wedding, and he sets Tracie’s dress on fire before the photographer can get any wedding photos. Michael and Gob come to blows, they always do, and Lindsay’s boyfriend Tobias films it and their father releases one more Boyfights. 

The next time Gob sees Michael is at Tracie’s funeral. He doesn’t say it out loud, but one barely coherent thought echoes in Gob’s mind.

'See, Michael? Bullshit.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, bipolar gob club, I love you all so much.


	3. The Intervention

Surprisingly, it’s Lindsay, home from a protest about animal rights, who first comes up with the idea.

“We should host an intervention.” 

Michael nods. “For Tobias?”

“What? No, for Mother.” Lindsay gestures dramatically at the entirety of the spotless living room. “Her drinking problem is out of control!”

“You do realize that there is currently nothing you can physically point to that aids your argument right now, right?” 

Michael can’t deter Lindsay though. “Exactly, Michael. Exactly. There is nothing I can physically point to, because the damage is-” and is Lindsay trying to fake cry again? “-in here.” Lindsay lays a perfectly manicured hand over the wrong side of her chest.

Still, Gob can see Michael consider it. Of course he’d be on board, it’s exactly the kind of meddling Michael loves. “That actually could be a good idea. You know, Mom’s alcoholism has started to really impact everyone’s lives.” Michael’s approval is really all the project needs to snowball.

And that’s how Lindsay, Tobias, Michael, and Gob wind up in the Bluth penthouse on a Sunday afternoon. 

Michael actually has an agenda typed up, the nerd. “Okay, so, the first thing we need to do is find all of the alcohol hidden in this penthouse.” The four look at each other. “I’ve allocated about three hours.” 

“Yeah.”  
“Good.”  
“Sounds about right.”

Gob gets assigned to the kitchen. Initially Michael wanted him to do the bedroom, but anything that could potentially relate to his parents doing it is on Gob’s “no-go” list, so he switched with Tobias. Who was, as usual, a little too excited to do something creepy. 

“Oh, excellent! The marital bedroom! What a lovely space for connection and intimacy! It’ll be an honor, nay, a pleasure, to clear it of the vile drink-”. Gob cuts Tobias off before he needs a drink himself. 

“‘Kay, good. Go do that.” 

Gob starts with the pantry. Saltines, wine, vodka, cheese, tequila, more wine, some truffles hidden in the far back, olives. The Bluths would definitely starve in a zombie apocalypse type situation. He removes everything with alcohol in it, and carries it out to the living room. Okay, maybe he tries to carry too many, and a few break, but judging from the ever growing stockpile, there won’t be a shortage anytime soon.

Actually, it seems like a bit of a waste. Michael is probably just going to want them to dump it down the sink. And this is a very old bottle of wine. Gob goes back to the pantry for a corkscrew. 

A glass or two later, he’s ready to keep going. With the buzz going, he actually can think more like his mother, and remembers her favorite hiding spots. The oven, the space under the sink, the top of the refrigerator. He even remembers to check the hollowed out back of the cabinets, he bets Michael doesn’t even know Lucille did that. He returns, triumphant, to the couch, a flask of whiskey in hand. 

It becomes clear that Lindsay and Tobias had a similar thought as to the way to dispose of the alcohol. Lindsay is lounging on the couch, shoes kicked off, leisurely sipping straight out of a bottle of champaign. Tobias made himself something pink and girly and is slurping loudly with a straw. When Michael sees this, he looks disapproving, but only for a moment.

“Guys, we need to get all of this out of here.”

Gob stands, maybe waving his glass of wine a bit too much. “Isn’t this getting it out of here?” He chugs the rest. “Voila! I made this wine disappear.”

Lindsay pouts. “Yeah, come on Michael. We can play a drinking game.”

Despite his caution, it’s clear they’ve broken Michael down. “Like what?”

Tobias lets out a giggle. “Truth or dare, silly!”

“That’s not a drinking game, Tobias, that’s a game middle schoolers play at a sleepover.”

Lindsay is prepared for this. “If someone chickens out, they take a shot. If they don’t, the rest of us take a shot. And what do you mean, it’s not a drinking game? Honestly Michael, just because it’s something middle schoolers do, it doesn’t mean you can be so discriminatory.”

Michael looks like he’s on the edge of arguing, but, thankfully- “Fine. I’m in.”

The other three, definitely tipsy at this point, cheer.

“But first, let me catch up to you.” Michael grabs one of the crystal vodka bottles Gob found. “Who’s going to go first?”

“I’m the oldest!” Gob uses his height to an advantage, looking domineeringly down at his siblings and brother in law. “I’ll do it!”

“God, this is just like middle school.” Lindsay doesn’t seem too mad about it though. “Fine, Gob, who are you going to pick?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Lindsay.” Gob’s voice is swinging now, sarcastic. “How about... eenie, meenie, miney- Michael.”

“Of course it is.” Michael nods. “Truth.”

“Oh, come on!” Gob stands up, too fast for Michael to stop. “What are you, some kind of chicken?” And Gob never misses an opportunity for the chicken dance. “Caw caw ca caw caw ca caw ca!” 

Michael groans. “Will you please stop that?”

“Ca caw caw caw-”

“Fine, I’ll pick dare, but you have to do truth when it’s your turn, okay? Can you do that Gob?” Gob instantly stops, and sits back down, expectant and eager and really, who can blame him, Michael has always been such a pussy. And not like the British way.

Michael braces himself. “Dare.”

“PERFECT. Michael, I dare you to, to... Go next door and make out with Lucille 2.”

Tobias lets out a hoot. “Oh, you’ve got him in your fist now!”

They are all well practiced at ignoring Tobias. “Really Gob. You’re bringing her into this?”

Gob’s grin is smug on his face. “Yep.”

“Fine.”

Michael stands up, a storm contained and controlled and channeled into sheer authority. He strides across the room, of course he does, and walks out without looking back, leaving his siblings to trail along. He knocks on Lucille 2’s door.

“Buster?” 

Buster looks sheepish, and far too guilty for Gob to have any peace of mind at night. “Hey brothers, sister, brother-in-law.” He ducks behind his hand, avoiding their questioning gaze.

“What are you even doing here?”

“Well- Mother is so strict with the juice boxes... and a man has NEEDS, Michael!” Buster could almost pull off confrontational. If he changed everything about his entire demeanor and body language. 

Michael rubs his temples. “Could you please just get Lucille Austero out here so I can get this over with?” 

And just like that, Buster is giddy again. “Of course!” He claps his hands, calling out for Lucille. She comes to the door clad only in a dark red bathrobe, full makeup, and for some reason, full jewlery. 

“Bluths! What a pleasant surprise! You know, I always love seeing you kids, how are you-” Michael cuts her off with a kiss. Gob thinks that he could technically press Michael further, the exact wording was ‘make out’, but after Lucille faints, he decides to be gracious.

When they get back into the apartment, they are giggling and cursing. They’ve also earned a tag along. 

“Are you guys playing a gaaaaame?” Buster is too eager for them to refuse. After Michael delicately explains to Buster what an intervention is, he seems a bit more hesitant, but years of being too young to play have left him determined to do this drinking game with his siblings. Michael pours a shot for everyone but himself.

“I did it. Drink up.” Which, they do, happily. Buster with a bit more gasping than strictly necessary, but it still goes down and stays down.

Michael surveys the group. “I choose- Buster.”

His eyes go wide, of course. “What, me Buster?” 

“Well. Yes, you wanted to play, right?” Buster nods, holding his breath. “So now, you pick, do you want to do a truth or dare?”

“Truth!”

Michael smiles. “Perfect. What were you really doing in Lucille 2’s apartment?”

Everyone else leans forward. 

Buster hems and haws before finally speaking. “Well. Lucille has these-” and he gestures to his inner thighs “-vericose veins, and with all of my experience with Mother, she says I can just-” disturbingly, he shudders “-release all of her tension. So I do her veins, and she makes me grilled cheese and unlimited juice.” The look of desire is unsettling. “Unlimited juice, siblings and sibling-in-law.”

Silence settles on the group for a moment.

Gob pours the shots, making his a double. “Yeah. We’re gonna need a drink after that.”

Buster claps his hands, delighted. “Did I get a point?” 

“Oh yeah, buddy. Now you pick the next person to go.”

Buster is confident as he points to Tobias. Tobias, absurdly, looks flattered. “Well then! I will have to say, dare! I’m no crying nellie!”

“You have to kiss Lindsay- on the MOUTH.”

Tobias chuckles. “Well, that’ll be a piece of-”

“Like you mean it.”

“In which case, I will boldly take the swallow penalty.” Tobias downs his shot. “Do I still have selection privileges for the next victim?”

Gob has clearly been waiting for this. “Nah, let’s just flip a coin, it has to either be me or Lindsay- I CHOOSE HEADS.” 

Lindsay is growing lazy now, her eyeliner smearing a bit. “Fine, see if I care, tails is better anyway, have you seen how great my ass looks in these pants? Who actually has a coin to flip?”

After emptying their pockets, finding expired credit cards, gum, forget-me-nows, and a vial of some liquid labeled “moustache maker”, it turns out that the Bluth children aren’t big coin users. Gob does find a poker chip in his shoe though, and they decide that it will be good enough. After crudely marking an “H” on one side and a “T” on the other, and flipping it no less than seven times, it’s finally determined that Gob will go next.

He shoots it out, “TRUTH!”, causing his family to exchange a look of surprise, they expected him to try and back out of the arrangement.

Tobias hems a bit, an idea suddenly flashing across his face. “What were you doing at the Gothic Castle last month, and why did you need to borrow thirty pounds of my moustache maker?”

Gob shrugs, pouring a shot and pounding it in a practiced, fluid motion. “Skip.”

“Um. Drug history?”

“Skip.” Another shot downed.

“Sexual history?”

“Skip.” Gob is enjoying this more than he should.The alcohol is helping turn the world bright and merry, and for once, everyone else is getting as drunk as he is.

Lindsay groans. “Gob, the point, believe it or not, is to not get drunk. Or at least not all at once. Just answer one of his stupid questions, he won’t leave you alone until you do, take it from me.”

Ugh, of course Lindsay has to go all rules-y on him. He nods, either magestically or drunkenly, it depends on who you ask, to Tobias.

“What’s a Bluth family secret you know, that we don’t?”

Michael hurriedly interjects- “NOTHING legal based, for gods sake, please. We all need to maintain plausible deniability.”

Gob shakes the forget-me-nows.

“AND we still need to be lucid for when Mom comes back, and taking all those pills really can’t be good for you.”

Gob uses his dramatic voice, deep and throaty. “Well. It’s a good thing I have a tasty secret then.” He scans the room, making sure all eyes are on him. “Mom and Dad had a shotgun marriage, and I was the bullet.”

For once, it seems like no one else knew this. The siblings sit in stunned silence for a moment, so Gob takes it as a chance to go on.

“Yeah, they bribed the doctor to put my weight down two pounds lighter and say I was early. But that-” Gob pulls out a dove from his sleeve, thank god, it was getting angry in there- “was just my first illusion!” The dove flies out through the open window. 

Gob pours everyone a shot, and looks expectant. 

They down it, and the game goes on. 

~  
Later that night, after the intervention flamed, collapsed, and they had a party on its ashes, the Bluths are hanging around, on the edge of sleep. Gob is sprawled out on the floor, and Tobias is on the couch, having refused to share with Lindsay in her old bedroom. 

“Gob?”

“Yes, Tobias?”

“How did you know that, about your parents?”

Gob turns, and barely restrains a curse when he realizes how close Tobias’s face is to his own. “Personal space, dude.” 

“Oh, sorry, silly me!” Tobias scoots back, thankfully. Being drunk makes him easier to be around, actually. Drunk Tobias is cuddlier than usual, but easier to redirect. And he usually forgets in the morning, even without a pill. 

Gob checks the room. Everyone else is gone, or snoring. Why the hell not? 

“When I was six, I broke something or didn’t do something, I don’t remember what. The younger ones were being bad too, it was a clusterfuck. Mom came into my room, yelled at me, and told me I didn’t- that I shouldn’t-. That it was my fault. And without me, she’d have been free. When I got older, I checked, and her story made sense.”

Tobias is quiet, and it’s times like these that Gob remembers that he actually had a real job once, as a therapist. A PhD. 

“That sounds sad.”

Gob lies back down, staring up at the ceiling. If he was outside, he might look at the stars, get some inspiration for a new act, something where he can disappear and reappear to the sound of thunderous applause. 

“Yeah. It is.”


	4. JBJ's Penthouse

Gob finally feels like he belongs. More or less. 

Sure, he kind of wishes Mark Cherry and the guys would call him Gob, and not Getaway, even though that’s one hell of a bad ass nickname. And maybe the limo driver gig would be funnier, you know, if it was a one time deal? But he finally has an entourage, and he’s been out partying every night for the past... how long has it been, anyway? It doesn’t matter. He’s been on the scene and the scene has been on him. Mainly in the back of the limo. He kind of lives there sometimes. 

No big deal.

Having narrowly avoided the dark well of introspection, Gob rewards himself with a drink. He and they guys are going out tonight, of course, and they are going to have so much fun. They asked him to meet them with the limo at JBJ’s penthouse. For a moment he was nervous that it would be Balboa towers, how awkward would that be, but it’s fine, it’s another luxury penthouse complex and Gob is only a little disappointed. It just would have been cool to show off, you know? 

And maybe he misses his family. He's not sure when that started, the missing, he's spent so much of his life hiding from them, in so many ways, and even when they are all together it's never been that great. But who knows what happened, why they stopped talking and calling and seeing each other, he doesn’t fully remember, but he doesn’t think that’s all due to the forget-me-nows. Maybe just between trials, they fell apart. 

When he finally shows up to the right penthouse complex, all the lights are out. It’s not an issue, he just uses the balcony. No one is there, they probably just missed each other. There’s alcohol everywhere, and Gob treats himself to another drink.

And another.

He turns on the 64’ television set, initially to find some porn or something, but he ends up watching reality tv, which he guesses is the same thing, more or less. But it can’t really hold his attention, so he puts on some music too. And he starts mixing the drinks together, because maybe they’ll be stronger that way. 

Around three am, JBJ and Mark Cherry stumble in, also wasted. Gob has surrounded himself in sound and light and chaos, and it feels perfect. But Mark Cherry groans and throws a hissy fit until Gob turns off the music (he’s allowed to leave the Real Housewives on) and half of the lights. Mark still storms upstairs, muttering about his sleep cycle being thrown off and the damage it will do to his vocal cords, the normal stuff pop stars worry about. Gob thinks. At this point, he’s stopped being surprised by Mark Cherry.

He is surprised when JBJ comes back downstairs and joins him. He thinks he’s surprised when their mouths end up together, but there’s a nagging sense of familiarity, behind the wave of heat. He breaks it off, a little short of breath.

“Have we done this before?”

JBJ isn’t blinking, his eyes locked with Gob’s. “Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nope. Do you care?”

And with that, there’s a mental shrug, a feeling of acceptance and eagerness and the knowledge that Gob can always take a forget-me-now after. “Nope.”

JBJ grins, and Gob lets himself appreciate it. He must be more drunk than he thought, because he could almost swear that JBJ's eyes are like storm clouds, with lightning flashes edging him on. Which is super gay, and that's not Gob, so ipso facto, Gob must be super drunk instead. Not-

Gob can't continue his train of thought because JBJ just unbuttoned his jeans and everything else is irrelevant. And it’s abundantly clear that JBJ has definitely done this before. There’s just too much technique, too much talent even, for it to be coincidence. 

After, when they are lying side by side, the television still going in the background, JBJ tells stories about growing up with his father, the famous broadcaster. Gob tells JBJ about Michael and Lindsay and Buster and Oscar and George Sr. They both admit that they sometimes long for a name that isn’t just initials. And they take their pills in unison, a double dose, because they were girly when they were talking and they need to, have to, forget that. 

And the world fades away.

~

He can’t remember where he is or how he got there.

He can barely remember who he is.

He’s wearing a purple shirt that feels silky, showy. There are hickeys on his neck, he thinks, and he’s missing his shoes and one sock. He feels tired.

They’re in the backroom of some club. It’s smoky and dark, so dark he can’t tell where his body ends and the next one begins. He is the oldest one in the room by at least ten years, and he wonders why he’s still doing this. Why he’s here.

He feels like he’s been doing this for months, years longer than he planned. 

A flicker of recognition, more habit than actual interest, labels the people lounging on the couch beside him. Mark Cherry, John Beard Junior (and what’s that strange nervousness when they look each other in the eye?), Trout. 

He can’t remember his own name though. They’ve been calling him Getaway, or maybe that’s an order? He’s not sure, it sounds harsh to his ears. 

He thinks about looking through his wallet for some identification, but some closed off part of him is screaming, and he thinks maybe he doesn’t want to know who he is anyway. 

And what does that say about him, whoever he is, that he’d rather not know the truth, that forgetting is the better option? He hates himself, he really truly does. He doesn’t know why, or how he got this way, but he feels like shit and knows that’s because he is.

It isn’t until that night, when crashing at someone’s house, Mark Cherry’s or Trout’s or some girl they met at the club, when he’s on the edge of sleep, that he remembers his name.

Gob.  
Pronounced Job.  
A biblical character who had a shitstorm of a life.

It feels fitting. Only that Job had happiness waiting for him at the end, didn’t he? And this Gob, this person that doesn’t feel like him but he knows it is, doesn’t get that, won’t get that.

An as Gob lies in the dark, in the dark pit of his life and this disaster, he wonders who came up with the saying that things are darkest before the dawn, and if it’s possible to show them this, show them Gob, and tell them how wrong they were.

It’s just dark.  
It’s just Gob.


	5. The Reception

_“Love doesn’t use a fist.”_

George Sr. wanted to show a “Boy Fights” highlight reel, claiming it would be good publicity, maybe start a second wave of collecting frenzy. A thirtieth reunion special edition, maybe. Tony was shaking, almost too angry to speak, by the time George Sr. finally left.

 

“That’s so wrong, Gobie, that’s not- that’s not what families should do.”

 

Gob can’t figure out what to say in response to that. It’s what he’s used to. So he puts on Tony’s favorite movie, something trashy from the 80s, and they spend the night laughing together.

 

_“Love never calls you fat or lazy or ugly.”_

Lindsay calls him five times in tears because she can’t find a dress for the ceremony that makes her feel skinny enough. He doesn’t hang up once. He tells her all the reasons she’ll be fine, reminds her of the days when she was his best assistant, how every rival magician wanted to bang her after the show, how none of them were good enough for her.

 

He tells her that she could show up in a sheet and start a new trend. He promises that no one will look at her, unless she wants to be looked at, and then they won’t be able to look away. Everyone will be too distracted by the glitter and smoke and fire and the fact that Gob is getting married for real.

 

At the end of the fifth call, she sniffles and tells him that he’s never been this nice before. Tony gets a vase of flowers on his (their) doorstep, the note says “Thank you” but is unsigned.

 

_“Love doesn’t laugh at you in front of friends.”_

Tony’s final magic show of the tour doesn’t go as planned. The glitter cannon sticks, he stumbles over his intro, and his pants rip so loudly the mic picks it up.

 

Gob knocks out the bouncer for laughing.

 

When they’re back at home, Tony bandages up Gob’s hand, kissing every finger gently before wrapping the linen softly on top.

 

It isn’t until they’re falling asleep, limbs tangled, that Tony starts to giggle. Once he starts, a wave of laughter bursts from Gob, until he is winded and wheezing on the bedroom floor. It takes a while for him to calm down, stray wheezing giggles still escaping every few seconds. Gob stays lying there on the floor, gazing up at Tony.

 

“I thought you said it wasn’t funny?” Tony is smiling though, of course he is.

 

Gob wipes a tear from his eye. “Oh, it was fucking priceless, Tony, you ripped your fucking pants... but only I get to laugh...” Gob looks serious, or as serious as Gob can be. “Not pricks with stupid coats.”

 

It takes all of his self control for Tony to not glance at the bedazzled leather jacket hanging on the back of Gob’s chair. It’s worth it, it always is, when Gob climbs back into bed.

 

_“It is not in Love’s interest for your self-esteem to be low.”_

__  
  


Gob insists on making a scrapbook, of every positive review Tony ever got. He blacks out the mean words with a sharpie. Tony thinks about asking where Gob got the old ones, the ones from before they were together, but the blush on his cheeks reveals enough of the answer.

 

Tony starts leaving little notes, just post its really, hidden in every secret spot of the house. Gob saves them all, and likes to stare at them sometimes. They say “I love you” and “You look beautiful always” and “They were wrong”.

 

_“Love is a helium-based emotion; Love always takes the high road.”_

__  
  


The first time they have a fight, Tony and Gob stand still for ten, fifteen minutes, waiting for someone to walk out. After the twentieth minute, Gob asks why Tony is still here. Tony says he could ask the same of Gob. Gob sticks out his chest and says that he isn’t going anywhere, and Tony does the same, and they both let out a sigh of relief. The tension dissipates, and they make cookies instead, as a peace offering for each other and themselves.

 

_“Love does not make you beg.”_

Except for sometimes, in the bedroom, they always end up in the bedroom. Tony’s mouth on Gob’s, pulling out a groan and a ‘please’ and a ‘more, Tony’. But then Gob does that thing with his fingers and now Tony is the one gasping for air and on his knees. And the bedroom is an exception, he thinks.

 

And god, he loves the bedroom. He can barely focus, his head is going wooshy and not in the bad way that it used to.

_“Love does not ask or even want you to change.”_

__  
  


Gob finds himself looking over Tony’s shoulder at the orange pill bottle on the table. There are real pills inside, his real name on the bottle, and a doctor who spoke English wrote the prescription.

 

They went to the doctor together, and Tony held his hand. The office was too bright, too clean, but the doctor was hot, some young brunette with big breasts and Tony smiled and said that was why he picked her.

 

But she turned out to be good at listening too, and Gob found out that the world doesn’t have to be all or nothing, all or nothing.

 

_“But if you change, Love is as excited about this change as you are, if not more so.”_

When Tony comes home and Gob is sitting on the couch, smiling in a way he’s never seen before, it’s distracting. Something feels different, something has changed. He can’t put his finger on it though, and eventually just asks.

 

“Hey Gobie. What’s new?”

 

And Gob smiles this new smile, and he looks a little confused himself, but when he tries to explain he doesn’t stutter or panic, and he tells Tony about a new emotion he found. It’s not like being quiet, or like when music plays and everyone else fades away. It’s not like being high, or not being high but everyone thinking that you are, when your thoughts are chained to the tail of a comet. It feels like... and here Gob pauses, trying to find the words. “It feels like watching a movie with you, but I’m not scared of you leaving. Like the good will stay, and it can stay softly.”

 

Tony and Gob dance that night, but not loud and fast like they usually dance.

 

They dance gently, to slow but happy music, holding each other close but not out of fear that the moment will fly away.

 

And Gob associates the new feeling, the balanced feeling, with Tony, although Tony tells him that it’s the pills in the orange bottle, at least partially.

 

_“And if you go back to the way you were before you changed, Love will go back with you.”_

There is a weekend where Gob’s eyes stop smiling again. Where Gob lies still and stuffed and feels like he is turning to stone. Tony lies down besides him, rubbing circles on his back, and whispers a running stream of thought commentary into his ears. Tony coaxes Gob out with questions, so that at least his lungs are moving when he responds, and he feels less and less like stone.

 

Afterwards, Gob feels embarrassed and tries to apologize to Tony, for not being fixed.

 

Tony reminds him that he was never broken. And he says other stuff about cycles and highs and lows but Gob is just staring at Tony’s mouth now, and he bridges the gap between Tony’s mouth and his own with a desperate lunge.

_“Love does not maintain a list of your flaws and weaknesses.”_

Gob is really really bad at wedding planning. He gets bored too quickly and can’t sit still. He doesn’t care about color swatches, and when they went to taste test cakes, he ate too much and got sick.

 

But Gob also is tall enough to reach the top shelf, his crooked smile makes Tony smile, and he doesn’t mind being woken up at three am because Tony had an idea for an illusion and needed someone to talk it out with.

 

And everything is blended together. And Gob’s heart just beats out an “I love you”, a pulse connecting him and Tony, even though it’s rarely spoken, it’s always there.

_“Love believes you.”_

 

And they’re standing at the altar, one summer day. And it’s time to promise things to each other, and this time, they’ll keep those promises, or at least try harder than ever before.

 

“I do.”

“Same- I do too, I mean.”

 

And they believe each other, that this is real and for real.

  
  


ONE NEW VOICEMAIL- 8:17 PM

*Beep*

Gob, it’s Michael. Where are you?

 

THREE MISSED CALLS, ONE NEW VOICEMAIL- 8:45 PM

*Beep*

Okay, Gob, seriously, can you guys reappear already so we can get this reception going? I’ve already lost the battle to keep Mom away from the bar.

[Lindsay’s voice, muffled]

God, would that really work?

Fine, fine, fine... I WONDER where Gob and Tony are?

[Silence]

Seriously, where are you?

 

FIVE MISSED CALLS, ONE NEW VOICEMAIL- 9:21 PM

*Beep*

Goooooooooooooob.

[Clinking glasses, laughter]

We’re getting drunk without you.

 

EIGHT MISSED CALLS, ONE NEW VOICEMAIL- 9:54 PM

Con-congratulations, buddy. You did it. You really did it.

[Bottle shattering]

We didn’t- I didn’t think it would happen, but it did. You’re really married, on purpose. And for some reason, you aren’t here, but ‘s okay.

 

TEN MISSED CALLS, ONE NEW VOICEMAIL- 12:30 AM

Heyyyyyyy, Gob?

Your vows were so pretty Gob. Where’d you- who wrote that?

[Silence]

Like, it makes sense, you know?

You guys- you two.

You deserve this, the happy.

‘Night.

  
  
  


Gob and Tony wake up the next morning, heads clear, stone cold sober and happier than they've ever been before.

 

They both have silver bands on their ring fingers now, but other than that, nothing has changed, not really. There are like, a million missed calls from Michael and texts from everyone else, asking where they are, where they went. And the answer is simple enough. He thinks about attaching a photo of their kitchen, messy from making cookies, or their tuxes on the bedroom floor. Or maybe even of their new kitten, adopted right before the shelter was going to close for the weekend, a spur of the moment wedding present for Tony, who cried a little when he saw her. But they don’t need to explain themselves to anyone. He still sends them a response though, just one word, to everyone, a little bit in case they were worried, but more to mark his space, this space, his new life, to name it and claim it.

  
Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Love doesn't use a fist. Love never calls you fat or lazy or ugly. Love doesn't laugh at you in front of friends. It is not in Love's interest for your self esteem to be low. Love is a helium-based emotion; Love always takes the high road. [Love does not make you beg. Love does not make you deposit your paycheck into its bank account. Love certainly never, never, never brings the children into it.] Love does not ask or even want you to change. But if you change, Love is as excited about the change as you are, if not more so. And if you go back to the way you were before, Love will go back with you. Love does not maintain a list of your flaws and weaknesses. Love believes you."  
> Augusten Burroughs, This Is How
> 
>  
> 
> I feel like Gob would really like Augusten Burroughs work, and would rather use a passage from his books instead of traditional vows or writing his own vows (because if Tony and Gob wrote their own vows, it would turn into a magic show very quickly and they'd get too distracted to actually get married, and after the whole Christian magician thing, I think Gob would want to get away from that too). 
> 
> Thank you for everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone for their amazing comments. Bipolar Gob is a really important interpretation to me, and I think to a lot of other people as well. If you or someone you know is exhibiting signs of bipolar disorder, don't be afraid to reach out and get help. Lots of love,  
> annaloverofarendale


End file.
